


Giving In

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: Nightclub Meetings [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor brings Clara to a fancy nightclub. She gives in to her desires; he gives in to her.</p>
<p>Written for the Golden Oldies Porn Battle; the original prompt was posted in Porn Battle XV. The prompt is Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald, suspenders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving In

**Author's Note:**

> This story is meant to be read before Rings on Her Fingers, its sequel. However, it does come after it chronologically, so if you insist on experiencing time as a strict progression of cause to effect, you should read that first.

Clara rather appreciates that it isn't always thrills and chills with the Doctor. Granted, there had been an unspeakable Lovecraftian horror which had been driving the Ood mad, but they'd banished it back into the deepest reaches of the void, the Ood were back to serving cocktails, and they were living the high life at a swanky nightclub on some moon in the six-thousands. Really, once you got used to taking flutes of champagne and canapes from a mild-mannered alien with his brain in his other hand, it was almost normal. 

Almost too normal, she realizes abruptly. It wasn't that she wasn't glad for the breather—and it certainly beat chivvying the Maitlands around while she filled out job applications for local schools—but there was the slightest itch at the back of her brain that liked the excitement, the danger. And the alcohol was not helping. Nor was the way that the light caught the Doctor's eyes. Just keep not falling in love with him, she tells herself. No matter that it gets harder every time he sweeps her off her feet to some new planet, every time he looks at her like she's the only person in the room, hell, every time he tells her she's the boss. Because she is the boss, she's got this under control...hasn't she?

“You know,” he tells her, reminding her that, blessedly, he hasn't been privy to her chain of thought, “I helped Frankie write this one.”

“Sorry, what?” she blinks.

“Frank Sinatra.” He waves a frenetic arm at the air as if to indicate 'music.' “I helped him write it.” He grins that damned wide-eyed grin that makes her go a little weak in the knees each time. “Come on,” he says, pulling her onto the dance floor. 

I might as well, she tells herself, if only to keep him from doing the 'drunk giraffe.' He holds her close, warming her even more than the champagne, top hat casting shadows across their faces. His hand brushes her bare skin, just above her elbow-length gloves, and she shudders as she looks up at him. No, she thinks, I can't do it anymore, and stretches up into a kiss. Naturally, this sets his arms and legs to helter-skelter, but by the time their lips part she hasn't gotten kicked in the shins or elbowed in the eye, so she's counting that one a win. “You, me, in back, now,” she breathes, the last word making it clear that this is a hint which takes more strongly after its command mother than its polite suggestion father.

His eyes bulge, but he doesn't flinch as he leads her away, and his voice doesn't stammer as flashes a large amount of the local currency for a private room and a bottle of champagne. “Classy,” she opines just before he sonics the latter open and sprays it all over himself. She winces. “Very classy,” she amends, all the genuineness leeched out of her voice. She laughs. “Not as though you were going to wear that for long, anyway,” she tells him, hands sliding up his chest and back to push the tailcoat to the floor. 

“I'm keeping the top hat,” he insists. She tips it off his head as she kisses him again, mouth slowly opening. 

“You're wearing suspenders,” she marvels. “And really far too many layers,” she adds as the white waistcoat joins the jacket on the floor. “Really, with your lack of coordination and all these clothes, it's a wonder you manage to do anything.” They wrestle with his drenched shirt, his bowtie, and his shoes until he's finally naked. “I really should have given in sooner,” she mutters as he kisses her bare shoulder. 

“The feeling is mutual,” he murmurs, sinking to his knees, unzipping her dress and taking it with him. She shudders and sits back on the bed as agile hands caress her legs, unfastening her shoes. “You're wearing suspenders,” he says with a grin, “and surprisingly few layers.” He indicates her bare nethers with the slightest dip of his chin. “Not every girl can save a planet from an unspeakable evil from outside this reality without any knickers on.”

“Wasn't really planning on it when I got dressed this morning,” she grumps, hoping he doesn't start expecting the look. She might give it to him, mind, if what he's doing with his tongue is anything to go by. “Oh, yes,” she moans as his thumb brushes up her folds, just the hint of contact. He certainly knows how to use this body in bed, if nowhere else; she vows not to tease him for a week. A month, she amends in a fit of post-orgasmic generosity.

“Come here,” she insists as he straightens up to his full height (and length. Not that she's a size queen or anything.) “And don't say anything about science or history or famous people you've gone down on or...” she hesitates. “Anything, really, unless it's to say how nice my eyes look.”

“Your eyes look lovely,” he says, grinning like the smart-ass he is. She nods approvingly as she wriggles out of her lingerie. “Though they are quite large; could be defective. Just let me grab my screwdriver and--” Clara unceremoniously grabs him by the neck and kisses him to shut him up. “I'll just...” his voice trails off into a flustered silence into which she interpolates 'sex.' She nods at him like he's a simpleton and not an ultra-intelligent time-traveling alien. He just grins toothily and slides easily into her. And then neither of them need to say anything else for several minutes.

“We should probably try and rinse out some of your clothes in the bathroom,” she says as he flops stickily beside her. Not very romantic, but then, you can't have everything. “And then maybe we can think of some other things to do while they dry.” He hops up, full of energy, taking his shirt to the en suite. She just lays back and drinks in that fine ass while her hips recover. She definitely should have given in sooner, she thinks with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know that what he's wearing should be called braces. It's a deliberate Americanism to make the joke work.


End file.
